


Three Simple Rules

by fuzipenguin



Series: Razor's Edge [8]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Open Relationships, Other, lap dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 19:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15736110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: Bluestreak thinks the rules are simple. Jazz disagrees. Vehemently.





	Three Simple Rules

**Author's Note:**

> ebonykain said: Bluestreak/Jazz, lap dance

     ‘Don’t speak,’ Master had said. 

     ‘Don’t move,’ Master had said. 

     ‘Don’t touch,’ Master had said. 

     All things Jazz had agreed to multiple times in the past, and even all three at the same time.

     Mm… which reminded Jazz. They hadn’t done any wax play in far too long…

     But back to the precarious situation at hand. Or rather nowhere near either of his hands. It was one thing to be told those instructions and expected to obey when hot wax was poured all over your sensitized armor.

     It was a completely different story when the mech who you thought was the sexiest, hottest, and downright dirtiest living organism you’ve ever known pushed you down into a chair and proceeded to give you a lap dance.

     And you were not supposed to touch. Or move. Or speak. Jazz would probably have been able to manage the speaking bit; he was used to speaking only when spoken to during a scene. Maybe even the ‘don’t move’ portion of the instructions. He was also accustomed to remaining still under both extreme pain and pleasure.

     But to not touch? It was sheer fragging torture, and Jazz both despised Bluestreak for it and fell a little deeper in love with him as well.

     “How am I doing, pet?” Bluestreak purred, looking backwards between his legs as he bent over far enough to lay a palm on the floor.

     Jazz’s optics widened behind the visor. When the Pit did Bluestreak get so flexible?!

     “You’re the dancer, not me,” Bluestreak commented, trailing hands up the backs of his legs as he slowly straightened. He ended up looking over his shoulder, down at Jazz. Bluestreak’s hands cupped his own aft as he just barely shimmied his hips, doorwings fluttering invitingly. 

     Jazz whimpered and held tight to the seat of his chair.

     “You’d probably do better,” Bluestreak announced, whirling around and stalking forward. His legs bracketed Jazz’s as Bluestreak’s hands trailed down his own bumper, thumbs flicking across his headlights.

     “Of course, this part…” Bluestreak abruptly plopped down into Jazz’s lap, pelvis making a slow circle over the middle of his thighs, “… this part I’m not so bad at.”

     He leaned back at the same time his hips cant forward, just brushing his interface panel against Jazz’s lower belly. A second later, the cover snapped aside and the tangy-sweet scent of lubricant floated up to tickle Jazz’s nasal sensors. A hot drop landed on the top of Jazz’s right thigh and his knuckles creaked as his fingers dug into the underside of his seat.

     Ohhh, sweet Primus on a pogo stick.

     Don’t speak.

     Don’t move. 

     Don’t touch.

     Bluestreak really was the best torture Jazz had ever been through.


End file.
